


Experiment

by Sarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's home alone. Not for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiment

He doesn't often have the flat to himself of an evening. It seems as if he and Sherlock are glued to the hip nowadays but a couple of hours ago Sherlock had announced he was off out – no explanation – and had disappeared down the stairs before John had time to even wonder where he was going.

It's quiet without Sherlock. No manic tapping at computer keys, no exclamations of annoyance, or glee, no apparently random questions about the lifecycle of butterflies or which country won the World Series in 1997. John can't even begin to imagine why Sherlock would need to know about American baseball, but that's not even close to the weirdest discussion they've had in the time he's been here.

He thinks about calling Sarah, just to see if she would like to go see a film. It's become apparent that a relationship between them isn't going to work. She likes him, but she wants someone she can rely on to be there and as she's gently pointed out, he can't be that person for both her _and_ Sherlock. And they both know who takes priority. Sarah's nice enough not to call him on it, though.

But he doesn't want to call Sarah, or anyone else. Time to himself, in his own home, that's something to be treasured. To be taken advantage of. He hasn't even had a good wank for weeks, there's something mood-killing about a flatmate who rarely sleeps and who is liable to burst into one's room at any time with little regard for personal privacy or discretion.

John drags the coffee table in front of the sofa and positions the laptop on it. He clicks on a website he hasn't been to since before he moved here. He sits back, settles himself comfortably and opens his jeans. On the screen a variation of a theme plays out. A couple's car has broken down. They're both young and bottle blonde. A tow truck pulls up and a tanned and muscled god climbs out. John slides his hand into his pants and palms himself lazily, his dick hardening a little more with each pull; he's inwardly focussed, not paying much attention to the dialogue. On the screen the tow truck driver's jeans are now around his thighs, the young couple both licking and sucking his dick with apparent enthusiasm. John closes his eyes and leans his head back on the sofa, imagining himself in the tow truck driver's place.

When he opens his eyes again the couple are both bent over the bonnet of their car, their legs spread. The man is naked but for a white vest, the woman, her red bra. The tow truck driver is apparently conflicted about which one to fuck first. He slides a hand over each of their bottoms and they both groan loudly when he slides fingers unexpectedly into their arses. John groans too, and shifts forward on the seat as though to allow unseen fingers access.

"Bisexual," a cool voice says beside him and John starts, his heart pounding in alarm. Sherlock is sitting beside him, crouched more like, his legs pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. "I had surmised as much, but it's always nice to have one's theory confirmed."

"What the hell, Sherlock!"

"Apparently you didn't hear me come in."

"You think?" John says, with heavy sarcasm, his heart still pounding. He's embarrassed at being caught with his hand down his pants. Literally.

"You're angry," Sherlock says, cocking his head, as though puzzled as to why John would be.

"Yes."

"Why?"

 _"Why?_ "

"Yes, why. You are masturbating in our living room, a shared area. Therefore there was always the possibility of discovery. Is that not part of the thrill?" Sherlock's assessment is dispassionate, and there's something about the way he says 'thrill', as though it's something alien, something he only knows about on an intellectual level.

It probably is. And it's probably for that reason, because it is Sherlock that John's anger just drains away.

"Right, well, you're home now. Er, obviously." John slides his hand out of his pants as unobtrusively as possible, which isn't very, as Sherlock is sitting right next to him -- unusually close, in fact. "I'll just be off to bed."

"Must you?" Sherlock says eyes flickering from John to the laptop screen and back.

"What?"

"Since you're here…" Sherlock trails off. He stares at John as though he expects him to be able to read his mind.

Sherlock at a loss for words is unprecedented. He has John's attention. John even forgets to be embarrassed. "What?"

"Oh damn," Sherlock says. "May I?" and his hand shoots out, hovering above John's groin.

John's dick throbs as if in answer. "Why?" John says, instead of 'oh god yes', but it's a close thing.

"Think of it as an experiment."

"You want to experiment. With me."

"Who else?"

John thinks about it. "And afterwards?"

Sherlock looks puzzled. "What about it?"

Right. John knows Sherlock well enough already to know that no answer he pushes for now will be one he will be happy with. In fact, he has a feeling that if they talk about this right now John will have to say no, for the sake of his pride if nothing else. And just by thinking this John knows he doesn't want to say no. It's not like he's never wanted to experiment with a man, after all. Who better than to experiment with than Sherlock?

"Never mind," John says. He puts his hands by his sides and takes a deep breath. "Go on, then."

Sherlock's hand slides inside John's pants and takes hold of him with no hesitation at all. At first he merely fondles John's genitals, as if seeing how they work. John clenches his teeth to stop him from telling him to get on with it already. He watches Sherlock instead. Sherlock has a meditative expression on his face. John has a feeling he's going to do what he wants, whatever John says. After an eternity Sherlock wraps his hand around John's dick and finally, finally starts jerking it. John's cock impossibly gets harder. He feels a bit light-headed. Sherlock's expression hasn't changed.

There's a deep satisfied moan from the computer and John glances back in time to see a close up of fingers, slick with lube, sliding in and out of someone's arse. He can't really tell which one it is at this angle, but it's not like it matters. He can't take his eyes off the images.

"You find the depiction of anal penetration arousing," Sherlock muses. "Interesting. Do you imagine it being done to you when you watch it?"

"Yes," John admits.

"Stimulation of the prostate is extremely pleasurable, I believe," Sherlock states.

John doesn't answer. The tow truck driver is rolling on a condom now.

Sherlock releases him and rocks back on his heels. "Take your jeans off," he demands. "And your underwear." He leaps off the sofa and disappears out of the room.

John looks after him, bewildered. Feeling self-conscious, and just a tiny bit afraid that this is some kind of wind-up, that Sherlock can't possibly be serious about this, he works his jeans off and lies back on the sofa. He feels exposed and considers just stripping the rest of his clothes off, but before he can make a decision Sherlock comes bounding back, a bottle of lube in his hand. John recognises that bottle, and for a moment outrage eclipses embarrassment. "That's mine," he says.

"Obviously," Sherlock says, settling on the end of the sofa again. "I do not own any, and I assumed you would prefer to use a substance designed for the purpose of sexual stimulation. Was I wrong?"

John refuses to think about the fact that Sherlock is basically sitting between his legs now. "How did you know I had it? You've been going through my things!"

"Actually," Sherlock says, squeezing a handful of lube into his palm. "I deduced from your familiarity with the act of penetration and the level of stimulation you receive from it that you would likely own the means to facilitate your own pleasure."

"Oh," John says, subsiding. He can't bring himself to admit that he's not that familiar with it, he can't bring himself to say, actually I've only stuck my own fingers up myself.

Sherlock is coating the fingers of his right hand now. Arousal surges through John's veins when Sherlock inches closer. John thinks to hell with it, pulls his knees up and slides down so that Sherlock has all the access he could possibly want to John's body. Sherlock gives a noise of satisfaction and then there are fingers circling John's anus, rubbing, probing and John stares at the ceiling, all his focus narrowed to that one point of sensation. Sherlock's in no hurry; he's experimenting, playing, fingers slip into him, more than one, god, it feels like three and John's fine with that actually. The fingers are rubbing, exploring and he's floating, he's suspended, he's in no hurry at all, vaguely aware of Sherlock saying something, sounding intrigued, questioning, but he can't focus on words now, he just murmurs agreement, something, anything…

Then something is shoved under his hips, John automatically shifts to accommodate it, and then something blunt and not fingers, not fingers at all, pushes into him and John slams back into his body with a yell. Sherlock is on top of him, Sherlock is hot and heavy and pushing into him. _Sherlock is fucking him,_ grunting in a way that really shouldn't sound as hot as it does. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and his legs around Sherlock's waist and pulls him in closer, tighter and Sherlock collapses against him, buries his face in John's neck. "John," he says, and his voice is surprised, pleading.

"Sherlock, look at me," he demands and Sherlock lifts his head. John stares at him in awe. Sherlock's face is flushed and sweaty, his eyes are wild, unfocussed, all pupil and he looks lost, he looks miserable and that's not how sex, how making love, should be.

"Sherlock, _look at me_ ," John demands again. And John can see the struggle, the effort it takes him, but Sherlock's eyes focus on him at last.

"Sherlock, it's me," John says, groping for the right words. "I've got you, okay?" and Sherlock nods, even smiles a little.

"John," he says, and there's so much unspoken in that one word, in John's name. John can't even begin to process it now. He slides his hands to Sherlock's face and guides him down to him, and kisses him. Sherlock doesn't respond at first but John perseveres, and then suddenly Sherlock is kissing him back, kissing him fervently and god, their lips are probably going to be bruised later and John doesn't care, doesn't care about any of it. Sherlock's still inside him. John's bent uncomfortably and his legs are starting to shake from the effort of holding the position. Sherlock seems to realise it and lifts himself up. He gets up on his knees and takes hold of John's legs and starts fucking him in earnest.

John stares up at Sherlock's face. It's not impassive now. It's not disinterested now. It's drawn with concentration, focussed. Sherlock's staring at John as though there's nothing else in the world that could ever be as fascinating. John wants to hold on to that thought but then Sherlock must hit his prostate because John is _gone,_ there is nothing else in the world but that sensation and he's vaguely aware that he's cried out, he's begging now. Sherlock's fucking him. He's being pounded. He wants to come, and he never wants it to end. Then Sherlock releases one of his legs but John can't think about that because Sherlock has grabbed hold of him and is jerking him off. That's it, that's what he needed and John comes, freefalling, vaguely aware of Sherlock gasping his name and collapsing on him.

When he can care about such things again, John becomes aware that Sherlock's flaked out on him; all Sherlock's weight is on him. He's heavy. John's going to have to get him to move in a sec, but just for a minute he's going to savour this. Who knows if Sherlock will allow himself this kind of distraction again?

Eventually he stirs. "So, if 'everything else is transport', is this what you call a layover?"

Sherlock sniggers – _sniggers_ – into John's neck. Then he pulls away, his dick slipping out. It's a weird sensation. John can feeling Sherlock's come seeping out of him, which should probably feel more disgusting than he can bring himself to care about.

Sherlock looks down. His nose wrinkles. "Sex is disgusting," he announces.

"Not so much if you wear a condom," John has to point out.

Sherlock looks dismayed. "It didn't occur to me. I don't have any—"

"Sherlock, it's okay," John says, sitting up with a wince as a certain abused part of him makes its presence felt. "Trust me, I'm clean, and as it's your first time—" John pauses, he shouldn't assume. It had certainly seemed like Sherlock's first time, considering how overwhelmed and surprised he'd been about the whole thing "—it _was_ your first time?"

Sherlock nods.

"Well, we're fine, though if we're going to make a habit of this…" John trails off, not wanting to push.

Sherlock slides off the sofa and unbuttons his shirt. "Do you want first shower, or shall I?" he asks briskly, already sounding like his usual self.

John sits up, noting that the laptop lid is closed. Sherlock must have done it earlier. John hadn't even noticed. He strips off his jumper and shirt, dropping them on top of his jeans. "Let's shower together."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says dismissively. "The shower stall's too small."

"We'll stand close together."

"John—"

"Think of it as another experiment," John says firmly.

Sherlock looks at him with an arrested expression, half out of his jeans. "Oh well, if you insist."

"I do," John says, putting on his sternest face. "I do insist."

"How very masterful of you."

"That's me," John agrees, fighting not to grin. "Problem?"

"Not at all," says Sherlock, looking intrigued. He gestures towards the bathroom. "Lead on."

Naked, he is all clean lines and angles. John wants to touch him all over, to claim him, to show him everything John knows that will bring him pleasure, show him what he's been missing, what John can give him. The shower's a good enough place as any to start.

"No, no," John says, "After you." He waits a heartbeat, until Sherlock turns. "That way I can check out your arse on the way. It's fantastic, by the way." The startled and slightly pleased look Sherlock throws at him reminds him of the first time he'd ever complimented Sherlock on his detective skills. Obviously his appearance is another thing Sherlock's not used to being admired for. John's going to make up for that.


End file.
